This Impossible Truth
by Reiya Wakayama
Summary: Slash, post TGG, S/J, After all possible answers have been proven false, whatever remains, no matter how impossible, or improbable, must be the truth.


**Title:** This Impossible Truth

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.

**Summary:** Slash, post TGG, S/J, After all possible answers have been proven false, whatever remains, no matter how impossible, or improbable, must be the truth.

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warnings:** Slight slash, UST, fluff, romance, couch!snogging

**Pairings:** SherlockxJohn

**Word Count:** 1,786

**Author's Note:** For IShouldBover on Lj to help her bad day brighten.

xXx

He wasn't sure when it started, but he was sure of when he first noticed it. At first it isn't so obvious, just a look here, a glance there, but he knows Sherlock is watching him. It doesn't bother him, another odd thing to add to the list, he has a document on his computer that is over two pages long of odd things Sherlock does.

The watching doesn't bother him, in fact he, although only in his mind, preens under the stare of such a brilliant stare. It doesn't even bother him every time he looks at Sherlock when he is staring and the consulting detective seems about to say something and then shakes it off, a strange look in his eyes as he turns away.

No what bothers him, is the fact that Sherlock is avoiding him. Unnoticed at first, he finally sees a pattern after two days of Sherlock leaving a room whenever he walks in, leaving his computer untouched (he hasn't had to change his password in weeks), and often leaving the flat hours before John even wakes up and coming back long after John has gone to sleep.

They still go to case sites when the Yard calls him down, but it seems like there is a wall between them now, and invisible barrier that blocks them, that Sherlock refuses to cross and John would if he could just figure out why it was put there in the first place.

Even others are starting to notice. Mrs. Hudson (_'Oh, don't worry dear, all couples have their rough patches. He'll get over it soon._), Lestrade (_'Is everything alright?'_), Mycroft (_'Patience. MH'_) though what he'd meant by that text still had him wondering; even Donovan had noticed (_'What's up with you and the freak? Trouble in paradise?'_).

This though, is drawing the line. It's been two days, two _bloody_ days, since he had last laid eyes on Sherlock, a brief glimpse of trailing silk robe as he stood and left the room when John had come down that morning as he readied to head for work. He'd called Lestrade with no luck. After texting Mycroft and getting his cryptic reply, he was forced to admit defeat. Sherlock would eventually come back on his own.

The flat was empty when he got back later that afternoon, laden with takeout from the Chinese place down the road after his commute back from work. Sighing, he set the cartons of fried rice, noodles, and sweet and sour chicken on the last remaining clear spot on the table.

The floor creaked overhead and he froze, mind flashing back to all those weeks, months ago, at the pool, Moriarty's smirking face. They hadn't found a body after the explosion, hadn't heard anything from the man since. Tensing, he crept up the stairs, avoiding the squeaky fifth step, wishing he had his gun which at the moment was in his room, stuffed into the back of his sock drawer.

His door is open a crack, light leaking into the dim hallway from the windows of his room. Edging closer, he peers through the gap. He breathes a sigh of relief which is quickly replaced by confusion as he looks into his room. Sherlock is sprawled across his bed, back to the door, face pressed into John's pillow which is clutched tight in his thin arms.

Straightening, he edged into the room, opening the door as quietly as possible. Walking over, he looks down at him for a moment, seeing the tired black rings under his eyes; they stand out sharply on his pale face. Although he can't see for sure with his robe and pajama bottoms covering the man, he looks fine, whole, with no new injuries.

"Sherlock." He calls softly; slightly unwilling to disturb what is most likely the first sleep this man has gotten in the last few days. He stirs, pale lids blinking open and close a couple of times as he comes to full wakefulness.

John knows the exact moment when Sherlock becomes aware he is not alone. His whole body tenses, shoulders stiff under the thin, smooth cloth of his robe. He jolts up into a sitting position, pale eyes taking in everything and guarded like they never used to be. "You're back early." He mumbles, eyes glued almost unwilling to the doctor.

"One of my appointments canceled." He clarifies. "Sherlock, why are you in my bed? And where the hell have you been?" He asks, keeping his temper in check.

"I was tired, and I've an experiment going on my bed." He replies flippantly to John's first question and ignores the second, standing gracefully, moving around him to get to the door.

He's gone, and the anger in the pit of his stomach, the one he's been ignoring since this whole thing started comes to a boil, overflowing and spreading through him. He storms after the man. "You didn't answer my question, where were you?" He says, following the man's path down to the sitting room where Sherlock has flung himself onto the couch.

"I was…around." His hand waves through the air dismissively, like the answer should be obvious even to someone as stupid as John.

"No you weren't. You've been avoiding me. Why?" He demands, standing a few feet from where the man lies on the couch, back to him.

"It is of no importance where I've been or why…"

"God damnit, Sherlock! What have I done that's so wrong that you have to avoid me?" John demands loudly, uncaring that others might hear. This is what has been niggling at the back of his mind the whole time. That he's crossed some unseen line and now Sherlock is regretting ever inviting him on that first case, ever suggested they share a flat.

"I assure you, John, you have done nothing of the sort."

"Then what is it?"

"It is not important."

John can't help the snort of incredulous laughter that escapes his throat. "If it were unimportant, Sherlock, you would not be avoiding me? Is it something to do with a case?" He shakes his head and he mentally crosses of the Yard from his list. "Is it something with your family?" Another shake and he crosses off Mycroft and Mummy Holmes. He goes cold as another thought occurs to him. "If you've been avoiding me because you've been using again…"

"It isn't that, John." His voice is resigned now that he's stopped trying to avoid John's questions and he turns over slightly to look up at John, though he avoids his gaze.

John looks at him, really looks at him. Sherlock looks like hell, his hair a mess, though he smells clean which means he's at least been taking regular showers. His fingers are twitching, as if he wants to run them through his hair, as he does when he's thinking about something he finds unpleasant or irrelevant, which usually pertains to emotions, stupid people, Mycroft, or Anderson. He's already ruled out the last three, so all that is left is emotions.

Another piece of the puzzle clicks into place as he realizes this. Emotions are unknown territory for Sherlock, unpredictable and whatever is bothering him must have left him unbalanced enough that he needed to get away from what…was…bothering him…

"Sherlock, why are you really avoiding me?" He finally asks him, seeing the way the man stiffens again at his voice.

There it is again, the flash of something in his eyes as they flick up to look at him before glancing away, turning back to face away. John thinks back, way back, to before this game of avoidance started. Sherlock had been watching him, as if unaware that he was, or unwilling to look away. Further back, the look of anguish as he'd pulled the coat back, reveling what was about to end his life. And afterwards, the frantic calls of his name as Sherlock had looked down at him, face covered in soot and blood, a cut on his head bleeding greatly.

And further back, to that first stake out and Sherlock's word._ "John, I want you to know, though I am flattered, I consider myself married to my work…"_ He laid a hand on his tense shoulder and felt him start. "Sherlock, look at me." He tugged and felt resistance. "Please."

He moves sluggishly, reluctantly, looking up at him…and there it is, the answer, hidden under so many layers and masks, shoved into the deepest corner of his mind, unable to _delete_ it, no matter how hard he tries, it's become a permeate part of his _'software'_.

"Sherlock…" He tests this knew knowledge, reaching a hand out, cupping his cheek, and he leans into it, and John can feel him tremble as he lets this much show. "These things happen, Sherlock. Even you aren't immune."

"I didn't want it to happen." He rasps out, throat thick with the emotions running through him. "It hurts."

"It doesn't have to. I'm not here to judge you."

He has no time to think, let alone move as Sherlock surges up, hands grasping handfuls of his jumper as he covers his mouth with his own. He'd had an inkling, just the barest understanding of what Sherlock was talking about, but this is empirical evidence.

All he can do is hold on to Sherlock's robe, the material sliding through his fingers, as the desperate whirlwind that is Sherlock whirls them around, forcing John to the couch. They're breathing hard when he pulls back and John's lips tingle and ache at the same time. "I shouldn't want this, shouldn't need this…" He mumbles, trailing off as he comes back in for more.

He waits till Sherlock pulls back again before he places a hand on his chest, keeping some distance between them. "You should and you can have." The paler man is close enough that John can see the dilation of his pupils at his words. Sherlock grabs the hand holding them apart and moves it away, pressing in for more, and the world disappears for a little while.

Sherlock is wrapped around him later, much later, on the couch, unwilling to let him go now that he's allowed to touch. John's not complaining, enjoying the restful moment, unwilling to disturb the peaceful moment with Sherlock's head cradled on his shoulder, eyes closed and breathing deep. It isn't resolved, this thing they have started, not by far, but now that this impossible truth has come forth, it is easier between them. They need to talk more, but for the moment, they can let it wait. Closing his eyes, he turns more towards the man next to him, letting sleep wash over him.

**End.**


End file.
